The Can't Bury 'Em Here Tales
by AmandaKK
Summary: Princeton's car is out of gas, and he is alone in the woods with five strangers. When he suggests they tell stories to pass the time, he weaves his tale of a man- an artist. Princeton catches his companions' attention with his black roadster, strange antics, and the paint on his fingertips. (A modernized version of The Canterbury Tales written for English.)


**Hi guys! This is a story I wrote for literature class, inspired by the Canterbury Tales. It takes the concept that a group of people wind up together and end up telling stories, with a modernized twist. So enjoy this spin on a classic story, with a colorful cast of characters, a thrilling and suspenseful plot, and a splash of dark humor.**

My car sputtered to a stop not twenty feet from him. Standing next to his motorcycle, he argued with his cell phone. I groaned. My gas tank was empty. _You're smarter than that, _I chastised myself for the oversight. Switching off the radio, I hopped out and looked around. The silence reminded me of how far I was from the nearest gas station. It was kind of creepy—you never knew what kind of weirdo you might run into out here.

The man had begun to walk toward me, but I couldn't make out his features in the trees' umbra. He waved, entering the glow of my headlights. _A deer in the headlights_. I was chuckling at my own joke when he stopped in front of me. His brightly colored hair contrasted with the deep black of his clothing and eyeliner.

"Out of gas," I said, gesturing to the black roadster.

He smiled knowingly. "Same here." See? Creepy.

I introduced myself politely, and the man began to speak, but was cut off by the din of a blue car screeching to a halt behind us. The driver slammed her door shut with an audible sigh.

"Flat tire," the girl said, as she and her two companions made their way toward us.

I explained my situation and that of the rocker. "My name is Princeton," I added.

The driver, a bit less annoyed at that point, shook my hand. "I'm Louise," she replied, pulling at the strings of her green hoodie in an attempt to make them even.

Her two companions greeted us. The first was another young girl with side-swept black hair cascading down her shoulders. She was short, and wore Converse and a shirt advertising some obscure band. "I'm Dana," she introduced herself.

The other individual was a man with dark hair who wore a top hat and black slacks with accentuating off-white pinstripes. "Erik Wentz," he said when asked for his name.

We heard the rumble of a car approaching from down the road. It stopped a little ways from where the five of us stood, and a man got out. "Hi!" he called. "Car trouble?"

Louise ran her fingers through her short red hair. "We've got a flat tire. I'm going to have to call AAA."

The man—a blonde with dark eyes and a white collared shirt—smiled. "Well, my name is Esteban. I just stopped to see if you needed anything."

We informed him of our situations and introduced ourselves. I finally caught the name of the tall man. "Sid Borden," he said. "I'm the lead singer in a band; I was on my way to this place we're supposed to be playing at tonight, but my motorcycle ran out of gas. I called my friend, and he's on his way to pick me up."

"Rock star, eh?" I said. "Me, I'm just an artist."

"Princeton," Dana said, turning to me. "Do you need to call somebody?"

"Yeah, uh, I guess. Esteban, can I borrow your cell phone?"

"Of course," he answered brightly. He handed me his phone, and I stepped aside. My companions continued talking as I walked to the edge of the cluster of vehicles.

"Princeton!" I heard Louise call after a couple minutes. "What's taking so long?"

I made my way back to where the others stood, and handed Esteban his phone. "AAA said they'd be here in an hour or so."

Dana turned to Esteban. "So what brings you out here?"

He smiled. "I was just on my way home from work. I work in the city—" he pointed in the direction Sid and I had been driving, "—but I live out that way." He made a vague gesture indicating the other side of the woods.

"Oh, so do Lou and I," Dana said. "We were just on our way home, and Erik asked us if we could give him a ride."

"Hey, Esteban," Louise interjected. "Can I use your cell to call AAA? Mine is dead."

He pulled it out of his pocket and gave it to her. Louise tapped the screen several times before glancing back up. "It won't let me call."

"Oh, that's right. Sorry, I forgot to pay my phone bill yesterday; I was going to do it once I got home."

Louise glanced at me. "But Princeton—"

"Here, Lou, use mine," Dana offered, fishing it out of the pocket of her jeans.

She dialed a phone number and muttered something every now and then, between comments from the person on the other line. "It's going to be at least an hour," she grumbled after hanging up.

Dana laughed sardonically. "Nothing like being stuck in the middle of nowhere for an hour."

"We could tell stories," I said. The others turned to look at me. "To pass the time; we could all take turns telling stories. It would be like a contest—whoever tells the best story wins."

Louise rolled her eyes. "Why not? It's not like we have much else to do."

Esteban smiled. "I think it sounds like a neat idea, Princeton."

"Alright, who wants to start then?" I asked. There was a moment of silence.

"Why don't you tell the first story," said Erik, "since you suggested it."

"Okay." I smiled. "This is the story of a man. He was clever, crafty, incisive. Some would say this man was a criminal, but he preferred to think of himself as an artist. He'd committed many crimes, never being caught or even suspected. However, his luck wore out; he slipped up one day, and found himself in a hospital." I paused, meeting Louise's intense gaze. "It was sad, really. One mistake, and all that artistry wasted." I leaned back against my black car. "For years, he rotted away in that awful place; for years, he planned his ingenious escape."

An owl screeched. Dana jumped. Her eyes darted about, and she moved closer to Louise.

I continued, grinning. "It was a Tuesday in October—a night not unlike this one. Covered in blood and smiling in the darkness, the demented patient made his extrication. On his way out of town he stole a car—black, to disappear into the night—and hotwired it, speeding off."

All of my companions were staring wide-eyed at me. There was no sound other than the wind and our own breaths. I ran my fingers through my hair, pausing as Esteban spoke.

"What's on your hands, Princeton?" he asked, voice low.

"What do you mean?"

"Your fingers," he breathed. "They're stained red."

I laughed. "Oh, that. It's just paint. Did I mention that I'm an artist?"

The others, although somewhat warily, urged me to continue my tale.

"Approaching the outskirts of town," I went on, "the man entered a dark forest—not unlike this one. It was empty and silent, and he realized too late that the stolen car was out of gas; he had not taken this possibility into account. As minutes passed, he grew more and more anxious, expecting to hear police sirens any moment." I smirked at my companions, cold fear mirrored in all of their eyes, as I said, "He was not alone."

Sid quickly composed himself, breaking the almost hypnotic silence that had settled over us. "Well, go on," he said calmly. I appreciated his feigned courage, although it was obvious he'd much rather be at a pub in town, singing with his band or sipping a daiquiri. However, my story wasn't over yet.

"The man was in the company of five others. All of these but one were stranded, as he was. This man's car had nothing wrong with it—yet. Surreptitiously, like a general leading his men on a camisado, he made up an excuse to slip away—he pretended to call someone to bring him gas, and slashed the man's tires."

Esteban's eyes flicked to his car, and he fidgeted with his tie. "Why? What did the criminal do to them?"

I giggled, cocking my head to the side. "Alone in the middle of the dark woods? Why, I'm sure you can guess."


End file.
